


Just Promise Me We'll Be Alright

by fishfingersandjellybabies



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:28:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6995689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishfingersandjellybabies/pseuds/fishfingersandjellybabies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick was never the only one grieving the loss of Damian Wayne.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Promise Me We'll Be Alright

**Author's Note:**

> ‘Verse/situation where Damian and Jon were friends prior to Damian’s death. I like pain. I like hurting my favorites and hurting y’all. Ending isn’t quite what I wanted, but. I didn’t know really how to end it so. It’s there. Ayyyyy. I just thought of a potential sequel while writing this author note, so. Maybe. Supplemental listening is my all time favorite, ‘Ghosts That We Knew’ by Mumford&Sons.

He was holding the cape.

It was barely yellow anymore. Too charred from the flames, holey from the arrows. Drenched in blood.

In _Damian’s_ blood.

He didn’t know why he was holding it. It should have been the last thing he wanted to see, let alone hold in his hands. But yet, here he was, running his fingers along the fabric like it was silk, tenderly touching the bloodstains like they were beautiful.

Maybe it was because it was all he had left. Damian’s soul was gone, his body was in the ground, and the one who murdered him was taken care of. But here, here was his legacy, was his meaning in the world, in Dick’s own life, here was his _blood_ , and it was _all Dick had left of him_.

He felt the lump in his throat when he swallowed, but there were no tears to be shed. He didn’t deserve to cry. Didn’t deserve to mourn his little brother, didn’t even deserve to have that boy in his life. Because it was-

The computer beeped. An emergency beacon from a Justice Leaguer. Dick ignored it. Didn’t really care. It was a message for Bruce anyway. Let the sound echo through the empty caverns.

But the beeping suddenly stopped, and the click of a line opening fell in its wake. Not alarming, some of the Leaguers had the ability to do that. So still, Dick didn’t move.

“Bruce…Bruce! Anybody!” It was Clark, and he sounded _wrecked_. No doubt word had spread to the heroes about the loss just suffered. “Anyone, if there’s anyone there, _please_ you need to find Dick!”

Well, that was interesting.

“You need to find him and _hide_ him.” Clark rambled, and Dick glanced up at the computer. He was out of view of any sort of camera Clark might have been able to see, but Dick could see him clearly. He wasn’t in uniform, just a flannel shirt and jeans. He looked to be in Kansas, standing by his barn, holding a cell phone. His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and there were tears in his eyes. “I…I’m sorry. I tried to stop him, but…he’s upset, he’s not handling it very well. I don’t know how he saw, but he had footage from Wayne Tower, when it…it…” Clark shook his head. “He took off before I could stop him. Bruce, everyone, I’m so sorry, but he thinks-”

There was a crash, and the rumble of rock. It sounded like it came from the outer entrance to the cave, not the manor. Dick barely had time to turn towards the sound before he was thrown up and back, crashing into the sharp rock, before dropping onto a workbench.

A fog washed over his mind, though he never lost consciousness. But when he came back to himself, he could hear Clark begging. Pleading.

“ _Don’t_!” And it sounded like he was almost crying himself. “Please, honey, don’t. They’ve lost enough, Jon. We… _we’ve_ lost enough.”

Dick blinked, and tried to raise his head as he felt Damian’s cape flutter down onto his back. There was a person standing a few feet away. Small, short. Dark hair. Glowing red eyes.

And in a moment of weakness, he couldn’t stop his brain from guessing:

_Damian…?_

But then the child’s features sharpened. This boy was much paler than Damian. Less obviously muscular, almost scrawny.

But the large, red S sewn into his jacket was unmistakable.

“Jon.” Clark called softly. “Please.”

Jonathan Kent. Superman’s son.

Dick had never met him, though knew he’d been around. Knew he existed, knew he was strong, knew he was _kind_.

Knew he and Damian were friends.

“Jon-”

“You did this.” Jon snapped, as Dick tried to lift himself off the table. “ _You did this._ ”

Clark tried again. “Jon-!”

Dick coughed, glancing up through his bangs. “I did wha-”

“I saw the tapes!” Jon was suddenly in his face, red eyes bright and dangerous, grabbing the slack of Dick’s t-shirt, and launching him across the cave. He landed on flat surface this time, felt Damian’s cape slip away from underneath his shoulders as he was scraped across the stone floor. He could feel the burn as his skin was rubbed raw, but was more focused on the heavy footsteps following across the floor. “I saw what you did!”

Dick didn’t even get a chance to get to his elbows, before a kick landed on his stomach. Then another, then _another_. The fourth tossed him again, and this time knocked the wind out of him.

He flopped pathetically onto his back, gasping as he stared up at the ceiling. He could hear Clark still faintly shouting, the whoosh of wind around his voice, like he was flying, but he couldn’t hear the words. It was just noise. Something happening that had no relation to him.

He coughed, and tried, “J-Jon…”

Every wheeze was painful, and even as he heard Jon approaching again, all he could think was:

_This still doesn’t hurt as bad as losing him._

Tiny fists wrapped into the front of his shirt again, and dragged him up, slamming him into the nearby computer banks. This time, though Jon remained, just holding him up, pressing him harshly to the metal.

“You let him protect you!” Jon screamed into Dick’s face, spit snapping off his lips, and his red eyes growing deeper, if that was even possible. “You let him _die_ for you!”

“Jon.” Clark called. “Jon, buddy, stop, okay? Just let me get there. We can all talk about this, and help each other through this, just let me-”

Those fists tightened and suddenly Dick was thrown again. He slammed into the lockers, and knew instantly that Jon threw him hard enough to leave dents in the doors. Maybe break a bone or two. And it was almost an afterthought, when he began to feel blood on his mouth, bruises starting to well up along his torso.

 _“This is your fault!”_ Jon screeched, storming towards Dick again. “This is all. _Your. Fault!”_

And Dick doesn’t know who was more surprised Jon or himself, that as soon as Jon was near enough, he whispered a soft:

“I know.”

Jon froze in his tracks at the unexpected answer, but Dick didn’t look up at him. Busied himself with wiping the blood from his mouth. Getting himself into a sitting position. Gently, he leaned back against the lockers. Took a deep breath. Steadied the lump still in his throat.

“I know it is.” He croaked and, after a minute, slowly started to raise his head. Jon’s eyes weren’t glowing with heat vision anymore. Were back to their deep, oceanic blue. There were tears were cascading down his cheeks like waterfalls. “And I’m so sorry.”

“…This is your fault.” Jon wailed softly, and suddenly Superboy was gone, and Jon Kent – tiny, young, too-kind-for-his-own-good Jon Kent remained. Just a little boy. A little boy who just lost his best friend in the worst way imaginable. “He’s _dead_ because of _you_.”

“I know.” Dick breathed, voice trembling and anguished. And suddenly, he felt the tears falling down his own face. The ones he didn’t deserve to shed. Because Jon was right. Jon was _completely_ right, and no one knew that better than Dick himself. “…I know.”

“…I hate you.” Jon hissed, though any effect he wanted was drowned out by his grief. “I hate you because he _loved_ you.” A pause. “…I wish _you_ were dead, not him.”

Dick found himself nodding in agreement, and slowly bowed his head once more, covered his eyes with his hand. Hid himself from the little boy whose world he’d destroyed. From the _second_ little boy, whose world he destroyed. “Me too, kid.”

He could hear Jon crying, listened to him try to compose himself. After a moment, Dick looked up, and watched those little fists wipe desperately at his tears. There was no longer violence in those hands, and despite his words, no hatred in his face. Dick could hear Clark on the computer, probably rushing up to Gotham still, but he knew it was unnecessary now. Jon was done.

Jon was done.

“…I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Jon admitted in a shaky breath. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”

“I don’t either.” Dick admitted. And Jon was done, but it was still dangerous. Jon still hated him. Dick still hated himself. And if Jon tried to hurt him again, Dick wouldn’t stop him, not for a second. But it was instinct. A habit. And he reached his hand out anyway. “…Come here, Jon.”

And much to his surprise, Jon did. Jon rushed forward, and collapsed into Dick’s chest. Before Dick could wrap his arms around him, Jon had already thrown his arms around Dick’s neck. And suddenly, Dick’s intentions were reversed. It wasn’t him comforting Jon, not completely, but Jon comforting him too. Despite everything he’d just said. Everything he’d just done.

“…I’m sorry, too.” Jon’s voice cracked, as he continued to cry. “I know how much he meant to you.” A hesitation. “Because I know how much _you_ meant to _him_ , too.”

And Dick didn’t know if it was that instinct still, or his grief, or because Jon was far too much like Damian for his own good, but he hugged him back. Gathered Jon into his arms and cocooned him completely. Hid his face in Jon’s hair, and didn’t say anything when he felt the younger’s tears soaking through his shirt.

“I’m so sorry, Jon.” Dick rasped, squeezing the boy tighter. “I’m so sorry.”

Jon didn’t respond. Just continued sobbing.

“But we’ll get through. We’ll get through. We…we _have_ to.” Dick murmured, stroking lightly at Jon’s hair. And there was hope there, in their embrace. He could feel it. That just _maybe_ , they could help each other through this. They could survive this. “It’s…it’s what Damian would want us to do.”

There was a sound across the cave, and after – needlessly – holding Jon tighter, Dick looked up, and found Clark making his way slowly towards them. Clark didn’t say anything as he approached. Stopped once, when he came across Damian’s ruined cape on the floor. But just silently picked it up and sat on the bench nearby. Held the cape like Dick was earlier, like it was precious, before glancing up at the two of them, and smiling the saddest smile Dick had ever seen.

God, if only Damian knew that this is what his loss would do to people.

“I’m sorry.” Clark mouthed, eyes darting quickly down to Jon once more.

“It’s okay.” Dick whispered back, ignoring the ache in his shoulder, or the blood drying on his lip. “It’s all fine. I deserved it.”

Clark frowned, but didn’t say anything, as Dick leaned his face back into Jon’s hair, as Jon coughed out a wail.

“I miss him.” He gasped. “I’m going to miss him so much.”

Clark looked away, bit his lip.

The lump in Dick’s throat swelled, as he closed his eyes, and clung to this little boy as tightly as possible – as tightly as he should have held Damian.

“I know.” Dick repeated, because there was nothing else to say. Nothing else he _could_ say. Because even with hope for a better future, for him _and_ Jon, there was nothing – not right now or maybe even in the future – that would make this hurt truly go away. Ever lessen this loss. “I know you will, buddy.”

So he just tightened his hold, and let the boy cry into his shoulder, just as tried to control his own tears.

“Because I am too.” Dick whispered, leaving a kiss on Jon’s temple. Jon just sniffed, and tightened his grip on Dick’s shirt. “More than anything in the world.”


End file.
